This is How it Ends

May 23, 2016

He showed me the blueprints drawn with pencil on a white sheet of paper. ‘This is the sports section with a wave of his hand. This the Giants section.” Did he just say the Giants section and “Mom”, as he tossed books into the hall, “I don’t need these anymore”. Out went One Morning in Maine, Dr. Seuss selections, and a Pokemon book. The Pokemon he would pour over with his best friend from preschool, the one he would pack his overnight bag every trip to CT so they could study it, at night with flashlights, long after they were supposed to be asleep. Puff the Magic Dragon went along with Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, later retrieved and placed back on the shelf.

I took inventory. Poetry made the cut (thank God) and his library of religious books from his First Communion (thank God). And Roald Dahl. The Witches, which we are 3/4 through remained. We are at the part where the grandmother and the boy are about to steal the secret potion.

I take in the stack of books and realize, this how it ends. The trick ending. While waiting for the grand finale and spectacular display of lights and trumpeting sounds, it is only the quiet of a door, closed gently while your hand reaches for it. This is how we say goodbye. To childhood, to youth, to books once cradled in laps and cupped in chubby hands, now tossed dismissively into the hall.

We would read Puff the Magic Dragon almost nightly, snuggled in while I sang the verses, always feeling a catch in my throat, “dragons live forever, but not so little boys.” And now. Not so little boys has rearranged his room.

Mom, he said in CVS, I need combs, brushes are for babies. And the combs, and the gel, and the little boy growing before my eyes are placed on shelves, lined neatly.

All while my oldest is turning 12.

We had a Cupcake Wars birthday party this past weekend. 12 of 12 year olds, split into teams who baked and cheered and called to me as I ran back and forth with melted butter and fished through cabinets for cocoa powder and vanilla, graham cracker crumbs and food coloring.

When do they stop having parties, I wondered. These parties. With Mom and siblings, and happy birthday to you, wishes, and candles, and balloons. When did my toddler, who would only wear pink, only wear dresses, who would wake at night when her headband shifted off her head with a soft cry and I would groggily find my way into her room, retrieve the headband from the floor, or behind the bedpost, and place it back on her head, as only a true princess deserves, before I headed back to my own. When did that baby, my baby, turn 12.

When did we last read Picasso and Minou. Or Make Way for Ducklings. I thank God Frederick remained on the shelf, with his words of poetry spoken during the long cold winter months. Frederick, purchased from the Riverside School book fair. Frederick who was packed in boxes, and here now, placed on this shelf. Frederick, my son’s middle name. Which I read in kindergarten and in preschool classrooms along with My Momma is Llama, my son on the floor beside me, looking up.

I will cherish this life I am given. I will honor these children gifted to me. And as long as they will allow, I will host birthdays, and read in classrooms, and hold hands, and knock softly while I enter through doors.

This is how it ends. Be ready. Live fully.